Endless Blue-ARC

by Wen Spencer

  He knew how much he would be asking Paige to give up; everything he thought he'd lost himself. Part of him didn't even want to think about subjecting her to that. And what did he have to offer? The future he'd always envisioned required him to stay on the Svoboda, fighting along with Mikhail, until Mikhail proved himself a war hero and moved into politics. It could take years. Any other future was a huge step down; from being major power in the empire to struggling to stay above common house cat.

  The lower his level, the worse people would view Paige. One thing to be lover to the Tsar's trusted advisor. Quite another to be lover to poor man's house cat. And the basic truth was that they were just shades of the same perversion; she'd always be 'that female cat fancier.'

  But he loved her. He didn't want to lose her. And he was afraid that the sea would simply swallow her up. She wasn't safe on the Rosetta, no matter how much she might love it and her family.

  He wanted her to go back with him to his universe.

  He didn't want her to give up her universe for him.

  He had no place in his universe for her.

  He loathed the thought of staying in her universe, trapped on that tiny boat, helpless and bored stupid.

  Life had been easier when he had no choices.

  * * *

  The bed was heavenly. It reminded Paige of drifting in a quiet pool without the wet. Perhaps it was like sleeping on a cloud. Turk had kept his promises and only slept, spooned against her back. When she woke up, he was already gone.

  She took another shower. It was a dangerously decadent shower.

  Turk had left out a clean shirt for her: a seductively soft short-sleeve pullover in a beautiful shade of blue. It matched her eyes. Damn the man was good. Well, two could play this game. She'd have to work on countermeasures. The problem being that she wasn't sure what the Rosetta could offer—other than herself—that might appeal to him.

  It felt a little underhanded to toss his cabin for clues . . .actually it was extremely underhanded. Oh well. All's fair in love and war. It was also fascinating to see how a new spaceship worked, as opposed to one that been sunken in salt water for countless years. The drawers were so flush to the wall that they were nearly invisible. They opened with a light touch and were lit from inside. How ironic that while Turk had spent so many days naked on the Rosetta, he had two weeks worth of socks and underwear folded neatly up and waiting his return on the Svoboda.

  In the second drawer down was a photo frame. She turned it on. It had photographs of Turk and Mikhail. Meeting them as adults, she thought of them roughly the same age, but the photos made it clear that Mikhail was three or four years older. Their solidarity showed even in the earliest pictures; they leaned close together and looked at the camera with cautious eyes. They were allies against whoever was taking their picture. She didn't notice that they weren't smiling until she came upon later photos, showing them as young men, and obviously entrusted with a camera of their own. The enemy behind the lens was gone, and they grinned for the pictures, showing warmth and affection for each other.

  The third to the last picture was of a man Paige thought was Mikhail until she cycled to the next photo. It was the same man posed with Mikhail. They'd cloned Viktor more than once! This then was Mikhail and Turk's "father." The older clone and Mikhail were dressed formally in imperial regalia. Tsar and future tsar. No sign of Turk in this official portrait of power; but then, he was just a randomly selected Red. The last photo was candid; the camera caught the "family" in motion. It looked as if it was taken the same day as the official portrait. The tsar was talking to the boys. Little Turk, who may have been only five or six in the photo, leaned against their father, looking up at him with full adoration. The tsar's focus was on Mikhail, a hand on the boy's shoulder and a stern look directed at his heir. Mikhail, though, was holding Turk's hand, almost absently, as he was being lectured to.

  "Poor Turk, did you ever get your father's attention?" Even alone, though, she couldn't say aloud 'does he even think of you as his son?' That was too pitiful to say.

  The frame cycled back to the first photo. She set it aside. Turk seemed to get along with her family well enough, but she doubted that they could compete with Mikhail and the Tsar.

  On the floor, beside the trash chute, she found a datastick which could be slotted into some device. She checked the photo frame and discovered the stick fit into it. She slipped in the stick and turned the frame back on.

  In a small opulent bedroom, Turk was tearing the clothes from a beautiful woman. What the hell was this? Paige gasped as the woman slapped Turk hard.

  "Bad cat!" The woman said like she was scolding a dog. "Where's your fur?"

  While clearly furious and able to break the little bitch's neck easily, Turk furred over and let the woman force him down onto his knees to service her with his mouth, like he was a street corner whore. This was sick. Paige tried to jerk the stick back out, and triggered some fast forward function. The speed compressed the following sex into unbearable abuse and humiliation. Turk couldn't have enjoyed this—could he? His rage seemed to shimmer just below the surface and there were moments she was sure he would snap and lash out. Wincing, Paige tried to free the datastick and stop the flow of images, but the datastick wouldn't come out while it was playing. With some fumbling, Paige got it off fast forward. The sex though had all been played out. All that was left was the woman rubbing salt in Turk's wounds. The woman reached down the camera saying "Let me give you a stick of what I'm going to post to the forums so that everyone can see what a magnificent animal you are."

  God, what a bitch. Who was she? Why had Turk let her abuse him? He didn't seem to enjoy it—or had he?

  18: Of shoes and ships and sealing wax

  As always, Turk's optimism proved to be viral on Mikhail. It was slow to start, but after hours of incubation, Mikhail was fully infected. Of course having Turk back alive and well, a translator in hand, docked at a bustling city, and peaceful aliens to study helped too.

  The mistake would be letting optimism dictate his actions. He had to plan for various outcomes. He dearly hoped that they would be able to repair the Svoboda and return to their own universe. The worst case scenario wasn't being stuck in Sargasso. It was actually second best. As Hardin had pointed out, it was close to paradise. Unfortunately, preparing for it ran completely counter to the best case. Instead of funneling all their resources into repairing the ship, they would focus on creating a permanent life here in the Sargasso.

  The worst case was that they found the people that modified Fenrir's engine. Made the needed changes. And the warp field distortion because of added mass of the atmosphere was so great that they scattered parts of the ship and crew across two universes. In that case, once again, Plymouth Station would end up with an engine and a mystery.

  The worst case threatened to overwhelm him with the bleakness he'd newly escaped. He kept it at bay by laying plans. Eliminating mass prior to the jump, shutting all blast doors, having the crew suit up and located at the heart of the field would protect his people. Documenting what they found would prevent a second mystery.

  Mikhail believed in the adage that a picture was worth a thousand words. He clipped on a recorder headset and set about recording. If and when the time came to go back to their own universe, he'd make sure there was a record of their time here in the Sargasso on the engine.

  He started by climbing to the top of Svoboda and slowly panning over the harbor. "This is the crash site of the Yamoto and the Yamaguchi. It's home to hundreds of thousands of humans, many of who were born here in this place they call the Sargasso. We've been here," he paused to check his com. "Nearly twenty days. So far there have been no signs of nefrims and the only aliens we have encountered seem to be friendly."

  He spent several minutes using the eyepiece to zoom in on the great marooned spaceships. Once again the morning was foggy and he had to use filters to pierce the gloom and get clear shots. As he finished, Captain Bailey scrambled up the side o
f the ship to join him.

  "Good morning, Grandpa." She grinned at him. "What are you doing?"

  "Covering all my options." He erased her greeting and turned off the recorder. He wanted to strictly control what got back to the United Colonies. "And trying to decide what to do next. Are there Novaya Rus Landings?"

  "Russian ships don't land well," Captain Bailey said. "Where the ship was headed when it comes here seems to rule where it lands. We think that's why the Yamoto and the Yamaguchi are together and most of the New Washington ships are on the Washington Archipelagos. Fenrir was the exception, but it was jumping to a new space station located in deep space."

  "Plymouth Station."

  She glanced at him in surprise, and then nodded. "The area that Novaya Rus ships come down in isn't over shallows."

  "They all sink?"

  She nodded again. "During the Colonial Wars, Novaya Rus was for the most part, non-aggressive. Then Novaya Rus stayed out of the beginning of the Nefrim War . . ."

  "Ah, yes." Mikhail saw where this was going. Since the Novaya Rus hadn't jumped ships in large numbers into Nipponese or New Washington space, few would have landed near to Ya-ya or Georgetown.

  "I've heard that there are a few small landings, far down the negative beyond Mary's Landing, but they don't have the wherewithal to come this far up the axis.

  The distance involved and the relative smallness of the Novaya Rus landings made them high risk. It would be better to settle in a larger landing. Both Ya-ya and Georgetown seemed good candidates. Ya-ya was the largest, most prosperous landing and they were already there. The language barrier, however, was enormous. Standard borrowed heavily from English and used the same alphabet. All of his crew had taken years of Standard and were at least marginal at speaking it.

  "Would Georgetown take us in if we wanted to settle there?" Mikhail asked.

  "Probably," she said slowly. "If it wasn't you, no. But people knew and trusted Grandpa. And our family has a lot of pull there."

  By 'our family' did she mean the Baileys or the Volkov descendents—or was there little difference between the two?

  Speaking of family and language barriers, they'd made their way to the minotaur encampment set up in the Svoboda's hanger. "How are the children?"

  "Growing restless." Captain Bailey said. "I sent a message over to the Rosetta for Hilary and Becky to come over and babysit. They can keep the calves distracted by teaching them our games and learning theirs."

  Mikhail had only vague memories of how unmanageable bored children could be. And these children were over six feet tall. "Thank you."

  "I also sent a report to my mentor, Ceri. The city council was going to pay an hourly wage for negotiations. I'm hoping that they'll be willing to cough up something for babysitting, but I doubt that will happen. There's no profit in it for them."

  Mikhail supposed that it was a true sign of how acclimated the humans of the Sargasso were to their circumstance: a host of aliens generated only a minor squabble over who would 'babysit.' Tseytlin had reported that they were still trying to understand how the communicator was supposed to work. It might be days before they could send a message out to the minotaur parents. In the meantime, they could gather information on the aliens.

  "How many other aliens are there in Ya-ya? I'd like a chance to study them."

  "There are the Hak." Captain Bailey said. "They're at Temple Island. There might be some seraphim floating around. Other than that, most species tend to steer clear of others."

  Mikhail heart jumped at the mention of the seraphim. He hated that just the thought of being dragged through his memories again frightened him. "What do you know about the seraphim?"

  "Not much. You're asking the wrong Bailey. My brother Ethan . . ." She shook her head as if she was at a loss for words.

  Mikhail worried if this was the same Ethan that Eraphie called an idiot for going to Mary's Landing. "Ethan what?"

  "I don't understand my brother. I mean, I do, but I don't. Ethan can't be happy with life." She reluctantly added. "Sometimes I think it's merely because he's a self-centered prick, and it kills him that the world doesn't revolve around him. Being able to interact with the seraphim set him apart, so he obsessed over them."

  "He can talk with them?"

  She fell silent; thinking. She had the rare trait of actually considering the question before answering. People often held the belief that they understood a question upon hearing it, and the first thought that came to mind was the correct one. It was rare that someone actually turned a question in their mind, seeking the truth instead of giving an easy reply.

  "I don't think so." She squared herself to him and looked him in the eye. "You and I right now are talking. I am communicating information to you, and while you might be perceiving something slightly different than what I'm intending, there are points of commonality."

  It was his turn to ponder. "If there were no meeting of your intentions and my perceptions, then we're not talking?"

  "Yes. One of the most difficult things about translating is your own perceptions get in the way of what the other person is trying to communicate. A simple example. Pretend we're meeting for the first time. I'm Captain Paige Bailey." She put out her hand for a handshake.

  He shook her hand, wondering what the catch was. "Captain Mikhail Ivanovich Volkov."

  She held tight to his hand instead of letting go and ending the handshake. "Your perception was that I put out my hand for you to shake it. You believed that since I gave you my name, that to be polite, you had to give me yours. Since I used my rank, you used yours. But what if I held out my hand, wanting you to hand me your sidearm? Or if I wanted you to slap my palm with yours?" Her point made, she let go of his hand.

  "Ethan is misperceiving the seraphim?"

  She sighed. "Let's just say, I strongly doubt that he's putting his preconceptions aside long enough to correctly translate whatever they're trying to communicate to him."

  Was that what they were doing to him? Trying to communicate? Much as he hated to admit to the mental rape the seraphim were committing, he'd have to tell Captain Bailey something to get her advice.

  "The seraphim keep crawling into my mind," he told her. "They're triggering memories to replay. The worst of my memories. It's—It's been driving me bezumny—crazy. I need to know what these things are. What they want? How do I stop them? Why are they doing it? Are they trying to talk to me?"

  She frowned. "What are they doing?" Her gaze unfocused, as if she was looking inside for answers that couldn't be found outside. The frown smoothed away as her face went lax. She was still for over a minute, before she murmured, "They're trying to communicate something to you." She blinked and returned to herself.

  "When you cross a Red with a Blue," Eraphie had said. "You get a lot more than a pretty kitty. Blues have something going on up here."

  "What is it they're trying to say?"

  Captain Bailey opened her mouth but said nothing for a moment while she searched for words. "I—I don't think I could even guess. I know what you're talking about; I've had them do that to me. But only once. I'd gotten angry at Ethan and we were fighting and one came into the room we were in. And it made me remember being put down for a nap out in the shanty. There were cracks in the floor, and you could see down into the water below. For a moment it was like I was back there, staring through the cracks, just on the verge of sleep, watching the minnows dart in and out of the shadows."

  "And I think . . ." She paused as if she was worried about telling him the wrong thing. "I think what it was trying to tell me, was to be at peace. To rest easy. To wallow in the feeling of being safe with my family. But it might not have been that at all."

  "That memory meant safety to you. So it depends on what my memories mean to me?"

  "Maybe. For all I know the seraphim was relating to being disconnected from the minnows as they darted through the water. How can you know what they're thinking when they're so far below you, running from shadows?"
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  It took him a moment to realize she was referring to the seraphim seeing humans as minnows. Which he supposed was just as possible a translation of the moment as the first version.

  "I see." Mikhail didn't want to deluge details of what the seraphim forced him to remember. She was hinting that even if she knew the details, it wouldn't necessarily help. While he might be able to somehow bear his soul enough for her to come to understand what the events meant to him, there was no telling if the seraphim were viewing them in the same light.

  "It really depends on what the seraphim really are," Captain Bailey said. "If they're angels, then one could suppose that they know the human soul. If they're aliens . . ."

  "Why assume that they're angels?"

  "I've noticed that newcomers are often atheist. Hell, the word 'atheist' doesn't do justice to the way you think. It's like the question of 'is there a god' is something you've never even considered. Maybe because out there, humans have taken control of what could be considered the prerogatives of God. If you want a child, you don't pray to God for the miracle of birth, you design the child you want and give it life. You don't pray for good health, you eradicate illness from your body. It's not that I think this is necessarily bad. There is a level of maturity that comes only when you realize that you are responsible for your actions."